BOYS WILL BE BOYS.
The intelligence which soon after reached the Paddocks, namely, that
Arthur Vavasour was about to leave Gillingham, took Honor by surprise.
Not that she was ignorant of the all-important fact that the time was
drawing near when the heir-apparent was to take upon himself the duties
and responsibilities of matrimony. There was nothing new to Switcham and
its neighbourhood in the idea that their young landlord was at the early
age of twenty-one to pass at once from the thoughtless irresponsibility
of boyhood to the duller dignity of a man; and yet for all that, and
though Honor had often heard her husband’s friends and neighbours talk
over the coming event, she never seemed quite to realise the fact that
Arthur Vavasour was going to be married. One reason of this might be
that the future husband of Sophy Duberly was not in the habit of himself
alluding to the approaching change. As Honor sometimes said to herself,
he seemed to entirely forget what was hanging over his head. His spirits
were often fitful; at one time bright and joyous, at another depressed
almost to zero. Honor, remembering his engagement, would often marvel at
his fits of absence, his look--so strange in one so young--of brooding
care; for during the many weeks which Arthur Vavasour had spent either
at the Castle or as a guest of his future father-in-law, Honor had seen
a great deal of Miss Duberly’s intended husband. There had been nothing
conspicuous or curiosity-rousing in their intimacy. Other gentlemen came
and went, and were offered lunch (that meal at the Paddocks was famed
far and wide for excellence) by hospitable John Beacham; and other
gentlemen might, if they were so disposed, join that pretty,
modest-looking little wife of his in her daily rides on the Lady Meg.
For how long, or rather for how short a time these two young persons
would, under less propitious circumstances, have escaped the heavy
censure which their thoughtlessness deserved, it would be hard to say.
It was a great thing for both that one at least was but a bird of
passage. Very soon (in a few short weeks only), Mr. Vavasour was to be
married; and in the mean time there were plenty--a glorious safeguard
for endangered reputations--of other things and people, besides the
farmer’s wife, to be talked about. There was the _trousseau_ of the
bride, the number and beauty of her presents, and--still more
immediately interesting to the young of all degrees in that division of
Sandyshire--there were the anticipated festivities at Danescourt, in
honour, as was almost openly declared by the popular Countess of
Guernsey, of Arthur Vavasour’s “coming of age.”
Honor Beacham’s little head had at that time fully enough (like those of
her neighbours) to occupy it. She was too young, too fresh-hearted and
inexperienced, not to look forward with a keen anticipation of delight
to the out-of-doors amusements that were to be enjoyed in Lord
Guernsey’s park, to which all the “respectable” inhabitants of the
neighbourhood, the “big” tenants, not only of Gillingham and Danescourt,
but also the most highly considered, that is to say, the most prosperous
of the Leigh tradesmen had been invited. Danescourt would in former
days, before railroads were, have been deemed almost out of visiting
distance from Switcham; but steam had done its usual work of
approximation, and now it required but the short space of twenty minutes
to convey the travellers from the furthest point of Switcham parish to
the great lodge-gates of “the Court.”
But though young Mrs. Beacham was by no means insensible to the coming
pleasure in a few days to be vouchsafed to her unpresuming class, still
there remained, it is to be feared, more space in her mind than was
altogether advisable for thoughts of Arthur Vavasour and his approaching
“change” of circumstances and life. She had grown, very different as
were their positions in life, to know him (as she fancied) very
thoroughly. From the first she had felt and seemed to herself to be the
equal in _degree_, as it is called, of Arthur Vavasour. Whether it were
that her individual nature was delicate and refined, or that, as the
foolish creature loved to think, her birth, of the particulars of which
she knew so little, was one sufficiently “gentle” to account both for
the peculiarity of her tastes and the gracefulness of her appearance,
must remain for the present an open question; one thing, however, is
certain, namely, that she and Arthur Vavasour were not only rarely at a
loss for subjects of conversation, but that never once in all their
intercourse had he caused her to remember either by word or look that
his position in life was more exalted than her own. Take it altogether,
in spite of Mrs. Beacham’s crossness, and although John had been often
very busy among his horses and his men, those two months had been a
singularly happy time to Honor. She had enjoyed to a degree, which only
to look back upon was a delight, those delicious rides in evening-time
through the shady lanes, those canters over the springy turf in the
beautiful “Chace” which Arthur already talked of as his own, those
strolls about the pleasant Paddock garden, when just a tinge of
sentiment--of _sentiment_ guessed at rather than expressed--mingled with
Arthur’s more commonplace words, and lent the charm of charms, although
she knew it not, to all that Honor gathered from her companion’s lips.
She was indeed, and for that matter so also was John himself, thoroughly
happy in the cheerful society of Arthur Vavasour. He was the familiar
friend, the ever-welcome guest both of “master” and of “young missus,”
and “as a friend” he deemed it his duty to impart to her the fact of his
approaching marriage, and that he must, before many days would be past
over, bid adieu to Gillingham.
She was in the garden that afternoon, and they (Honor and her friend)
were standing together side by side on the famous terrace, when the
latter said abruptly:
“Before I see you again, Mrs. Beacham, how many things will have
changed! I shall be a married man--how absurd it sounds!--tied and bound
by the chain of a wife!” and he laughed nervously as he said the word.
Honor, feeling rather confused, contrived to murmur something about not
exactly seeing the absurdity of the measure proposed. It _might_ be
entertaining, certainly, but she did not understand why Mr. Vavasour
laughed.
“Well, I suppose I didn’t mean precisely absurd, but unsatisfactory
somehow--startling almost at my age, you know--to be bothered by a
wife.”
Honor’s sense of the ridiculous was struck by the word “startling,” and
she laughed; such a musical laugh it was! Arthur thought she never
looked so pretty as when she was amused.
“I suppose you have been warned in time?” she said; “it hasn’t taken you
entirely by surprise that there exists a young lady whose lot it is to
be Mrs. Arthur Vavasour.”
His quick eye glanced at her for a moment. Was there a shade, the
slightest in the world, of _pique_ in her words and tone? He could not
say. Honor was not in the least prone to sarcasm, but her manner had a
little taken him by surprise, and he answered hesitatingly:
“Warned! yes, of course I was warned--warned by my own follies, my own
actual idiotcy, that I must do something of the sort. I suppose you know
all about it--all that the world reports, at least. How that--I know one
oughtn’t to say such things, but you are so safe--that there isn’t much
love in the matter. Old Duberly is as rich as a Jew--”
Honor opened wide the eyes of astonishment and consternation.
“Rich! yes, I know he is rich; but what is that to you--you, with all
that money, that beautiful place? O, Mr. Vavasour, you never can be
going to marry because the lady is rich! Think how dreadful not to love
her! And people say, too, that Miss Duberly is young and pretty. Ah!”
she continued musingly, “I know now what Mrs. Beacham must have meant
when she said something of the kind; but I never, never would have
believed it, unless you had told me so yourself.”
“Then don’t believe it now,” he said, drawing a step nearer, for he was
touched and gratified by her implied compliment to the disinterestedness
of his character and motives. “It is quite out of my line, I hope, to do
anything of the kind. But, you see, fathers are different from
sons--_they_ look forward, which we don’t; and besides, I quite well
remember mine saying to me once that he considered it rather a
misfortune than otherwise for a man to be in love with the girl he was
going to marry.”
“Did he say so? And John always tells me that the Squire was such a
kind, good man--the kindest and best he ever knew.”
“Yes, he was all that, but I fancy he was cold too; some people, you
know, become cold--from disappointment, I suppose, or something--as they
grow old. But about old Duberly’s money there’s a good deal to be said.
You see,” he added, anxious to preserve the character for
disinterestedness which he was conscious of not deserving, “that there
is a likelihood of a title (that of Baron de Vavasour), which has been
in my father’s branch of the family since the Wars of the Roses, being
disputed after the death of a very old relation, who now bears the
honours. My father was very anxious that I should some day be a peer of
the realm--why, I never could understand; and as my mother does not
trouble herself much about my advancement in life, I shall have to look
out for myself.”
“And why? I am very stupid and ignorant about such matters, or I daresay
I should guess.”
“I don’t know why you should, and I’m afraid I’m boring you all this
time; but the fact is that in this enlightened country of ours enormous
wealth--and the two fortunes united would be what is called
colossal--can almost command a peerage. But there is a better reason
than the one I have just been telling you of for my marrying an
heiress--a reason which anyone connected with old Duberly might be proud
of. They say he might be made a peer any day he liked, _only_ from his
high-mindedness, his wonderful liberality to the poor, and the excellent
use he makes of an income of eighty thousand a year. A wonderful lot of
money, isn’t it?” he continued, as he and Honor sauntered on towards the
high holly-hedge which bounded the garden on the east side, and was ever
a pleasant shelter from both wind and sun.
He did not expect to be answered--there could be no two opinions
regarding the marvellous proportions of Mr. Duberly’s income; and
indeed, his thoughts as well as Honor’s had wandered far enough away
both from ambitious hopes and peers expectant.
“What a bore this going away is!” Arthur said after a pause; “I’m a
wonderful fellow to get fond of a place. Do you get fond of a place? I
mean a place one lives much in, you know.”
“I think it depends very much upon the people we are with,” Honor said,
and the next moment regretted her thoughtless words; for Arthur said
eagerly:
“Exactly! just my feeling. It is not the ‘where,’ but the ‘who.’ I
should never have grown so fond of the Paddocks if--but you are not
going in, Mrs. Beacham? Do take one more turn--only one. It is such a
beautiful evening, and the old lady cannot be so unreasonable as to
expect you will waste it in the house. Hark! there is the first note of
the nightingale. Won’t you stay and listen to it for the last time with
me?”
His voice sounded very soft and persuasive, but Honor, usually so pliant
to the wishes of others, was inexorable. It was very pleasant there
among the roses. The summer air fanned her cheek with such a sweet
refreshing breath, and it was hard to change it for the low-ceilinged
parlour where Mrs. Beacham was expecting her, and which that worthy lady
(who entertained rather an objection to fresh air in rooms) had a
peculiar talent for rendering “stuffy.” Above all, it was hard to say
“good-bye” to Arthur Vavasour--hard to leave her pleasant friend--the
friend who “understood” her, and who had so often, with such quiet,
unobtrusive kindness, saved her from the annoyance of old Mrs. Beacham’s
“worrying ways.”
“I think I must go in now,” she said quietly, though her heart was
beating fast. “I have been out long enough;” and her step was not very
steady as she drew nearer to the house which, without _him_, she could
not have told Arthur truly that she loved.
He stopped, however, before they were within view of the windows, and
exclaimed with angry vehemence,
“I shall say good-bye here, I hate public leave-takings. You will give
me your hand, at least?”
Poor Honor! Her very anxiety to do right--her instinctive dread that
something, she knew not what, might be said by Arthur that John’s wife
ought not to listen to--did her ill service at that crisis of her life.
Had she pursued her walk with an even step, and without the blushing
agitation that betrayed her inward feelings, Arthur would never have
taken courage to address her in those petulant and peremptory words. She
was frightened, half angry, and half fascinated by his vehemence; but
she never thought of withholding the hand he asked for. Why should he
doubt her giving it? What had happened during that short quarter of an
hour to change the friendly relations that had subsisted between them?
It was all strange, and sudden, and bewildering; and tears of regret and
reproach glistened in Honor’s upturned lashes.
She looked this way and that, in pretty and very manifest confusion, her
soft red lips slightly pouting; it was so vexatious to be silly, and to
have nothing to say just when she so particularly wanted to utter
something to the purpose; and then Mr. Vavasour--it was so rude and
tiresome--would keep looking at her so! If he would only go! Honor felt
quite sure _that_ would be a relief. She had never in life before felt
so thoroughly uncomfortable.
He spoke at last--what an age those few short moments had
appeared!--and, still with her hand in his, said in a low voice, and
feelingly, despite the _badinage_ that neutralised its tone of
sentiment,
“I hope you don’t mean quite to forget me, Mrs. Beacham? I’ve had a very
jolly hour or two here with--John, since I’ve been at home this time. I
shall think of you the day I’m turned off; perhaps you’ll remember to
return the compliment?”
The words were trivial and foolish enough, but he pointed their meaning
by such a searching gaze into Honor’s violet eyes, that she turned her
head away abashed, and angry both with herself and him. Quickening her
step, they were in another moment in full view of the “parlour” window,
and then, and not till then, she took courage to reply:
“John will be very sorry when you’re gone--he said so only yesterday;
and--and we shall all be glad to know that you are happy. Good-bye, Mr.
Vavasour, I _must_ go in now.” But suddenly recollecting the claims of
her mother-in-law to respectful observance, “Won’t you come and see Mrs.
Beacham before you go? She is old, you know, and old people don’t like
to be overlooked.”
Arthur hesitated a moment, and then declined the well-intended offer. He
was in no mood for tolerating Mrs. Beacham’s old-world platitudes, and
twaddling lamentations on his departure. His approaching marriage would
also, as he was well aware, be brought on the _tapis_, and of that
subject he had for the nonce had more than enough. Arthur was
good-natured, lively, and popular--indeed, the heir was generally
allowed to be far more affable than Mr. Horace--but, like most young men
who are born to a “position,” and whom the world has helped to spoil,
Arthur Vavasour did not “go in” much for spoiling others. If it did not
interfere with his own comfort or convenience, he would be wonderfully
kind and civil to a dull old man, or even to a disagreeable old woman;
but as a rule, and when he was inclined to be otherwise employed, he
forgot, or altogether ignored, the claims of useless people on his
notice. His conduct on his departure from the Paddocks was an instance
of this not uncommon peculiarity. After his interview with Honor, he was
in no mood--poor fellow--for the commonplace and the tiresome. He was
very sorry, he said to Honor, he hoped that she would make his excuses
to Mrs. Beacham, but he was late, and dinner was waiting probably (a fib
on Arthur’s part) at the Castle. So, after one long, lingering look,
under which the young wife’s colour rose tumultuously, and a silent
pressure of her hand, he left her to the companionship of her own not
very lively thoughts.
The message left by Mr. Vavasour was duly, and indeed with some slight
amplification, conveyed by Honor to its destination. Her natural tact
had led her to add some of the conventional phrases--a few of the
_banal_ expressions of regret which come so “handy” to the use of the
kind-hearted and the courteous; but on the matter-of-fact organisation
of the “old lady” these little civil emanations from pretty Honor’s
brain were completely thrown away, for she was thoroughly “put about” by
the departure, without the ceremony of leave-taking, of her young
landlord, and nothing that Honor could either say or do possessed, for
that day at least, the power of smoothing her ruffled plumage. Had
Arthur Vavasour been gifted with the power of taking serious thought of
the future, he would have reflected longer before he made an enemy of
that pretentiously hospitable old woman. He little dreamt that the
seeds of distrust and suspicion were that day sown, by his own act of
omission, in Mrs. Beacham’s breast; so true is it that our most trivial
acts, our _mignons_ and unnoticed sins, may one day rise up in judgment
against us, and be unto us a means of well-merited punishment.
That night Honor retired to her own chamber with a very strong sense of
ill-usage. She had returned from her walk out of spirits and subdued,
but nevertheless she had done her best to be cheerful, had sung her
prettiest ballads, and smiled her brightest smiles--but all in vain;
Mrs. Beacham had been cross, and her husband, tired with his day’s work,
had passed the evening in sound and uninterrupted slumber. Poor little
Honor! Sitting there before the looking-glass, her rich brown hair
rippling over her shoulders, she could hardly refrain from asking
herself whether nature had made her so very beautiful, for _this_. She
was beginning to think that, as Arthur Vavasour had once expressed it,
she was rather “wasted upon John.” There were _others_ perhaps (I am
afraid that Honor was beginning to forget how much she owed to her
generous-hearted husband) who might have been better able to appreciate
her. There was one--O child, child! dwell not for your life--for your
soul’s life’s sake--on that _first thought_ that leads towards the broad
road of sin! It may seem a very trifling and unimportant thing
that--contrasting in your mind the flattering devotion of a polished
gentleman with the unstudied, homely ways of him who, come what come
may, is, and must be, your yoke-fellow--that worthy, tired John, who
slumbers while you sing, and who seems so utterly to ignore the fact
that you are young and fair, has, you may imagine, given you a right by
his lumpish somnolence, his unflattering _insouciance_, to consider
yourself aggrieved; but, believe me, there is danger in such
self-pityings as these. Remember that _le mieux_ is never half so
redoubtable an enemy to _le bien_ as when the would-be lover is brought
into juxtaposition with the husband, who, secure of his once-coveted
possession, either neglects or seems incapable of valuing the better
part of the treasure he has won. Honor, in the dearth of mental
companionship, turned as instinctively as the flower to the sun to the
“mind” capable (it is the old story) of understanding her. She was
motherless, poor girl!--the child of no tender prayers, no eager,
anxious hopes. Should she pass safely through her trial it will be well
with her; but if she fall, God help her! for the world will not judge
her less harshly because of the “extenuating circumstances” which may,
let us humbly hope, recommend her to mercy in the day of doom.